CHAPTER VI
All the way to the Whip and Spur Club he sat buried in a reverie fromwhich, at intervals, he started, aroused by the heavy, expectant beatingof his own pulses. But what did he expect, in Heaven's name? Not thediscovery of a woman who had never existed. Yet his excitement andimpatience grew as he watched the saddling of his horse; and when atlength he rode out into the sunshine and cantered through the Parkentrance, his sense of impending events and his expectancy amounted to afever which colored his face attractively.
He saw her almost immediately. Her horse was walking slowly in thedappled shadows of the new foliage; she, listless in her saddle,sometimes watching the throngs of riders passing, at moments turning togaze into the woodland vistas where, over the thickets of floweringshrubbery, orioles and robins sped flashing on tinted wings from shadowto sun, from sun to shadow. But she looked up as he drew bridle andwheeled his mount beside her; and, "Oh!" she said, flushing inrecognition.
"I have missed you terribly," he said quietly.
It was dreamy weather, even for late spring: the scent of lilacs andmock-orange hung heavy as incense along the woods. Their voicesunconsciously found the key to harmonize with it all.
She said: "Well, I think I have succeeded. In a few moments she will bepassing. I do not know her name; she rides a big roan. She is verybeautiful, Mr. Gatewood."
He said: "I am perfectly certain we shall find her. I doubted it untilnow. But now I know."
"Oh-h, but I _may_ be wrong," she protested.
"No; you cannot be."
She looked up at him.
"You can have no idea how happy you make me," he said unsteadily.
"But--I--but I may be all wrong--dreadfully wrong!"
"Y-es; you may be, but I shall not be. For do you know that I havealready seen her in the Park?"
"When?" she demanded incredulously, then turned in the saddle,repeating: "Where? Did she pass? How perfectly stupid of me! And _was_she the--the right one?"
"She _is_ the right one. . . . Don't turn: I have seen her. Ride on: Iwant to say something--if I can."
"No, no," she insisted. "I must know whether I was right--"
"You _are_ right--but you don't know it yet. . . . Oh, very well, then;we'll turn if you insist." And he wheeled his mount as she did, ridingat her bridle again.
"How can you take it so coolly--so indifferently?" she said. "Where hasthat woman--where has she gone? . . . Never mind; she must turn and passus sooner or later, for she lives uptown. _What_ are you laughing at,Mr. Gatewood?"--in annoyed surprise.
"I am laughing at myself. Oh, I'm so many kinds of a fool--you can'tthink how many, and it's no use!"
She stared, astonished; he shook his head.
"No, you don't understand yet. But you will. Listen to me: this verybeautiful lady you have discovered is nothing to me!"
"Nothing--to you!" she faltered. Two pink spots of indignation burned inher cheeks. "How--how dare you say that!--after all that has beendone--all that you have said. You said you loved her; you _did_ sayso--to _me_!"
"I don't love her now."
"But you did!" Tears of pure vexation started; she faced him, eye toeye, thoroughly incensed.
"What sort of man are you?" she said under her breath. "Your friend Mr.Kerns is wrong. You are not worth saving from yourself."
"Kerns!" he repeated, angry and amazed. "What the deuce has Kerns to dowith this affair?"
She stared, then, realizing her indiscretion, bit her lip, and spurredforward. But he put his horse to a gallop, and they pounded along insilence. In a little while she drew bridle and looked around coldly,grave with displeasure.
"Mr. Kerns came to us before you did. He said you would probably come,and he begged us to strain every effort in your behalf, because, hesaid, your happiness absolutely depended upon our finding for you thewoman you were seeking. . . . And I tried--very hard--and now she'sfound. You admit that--and _now_ you say--"
"I say that one of these balmy summer days I'll assassinate TommyKerns!" broke in Gatewood. "What on earth possessed that prince ofbutters-in to go to Mr. Keen?"
"To save you from yourself!" retorted the girl in a low, exasperatedvoice. "He did not say what threatened you; he is a good friend for aman to have. But we soon found out what you were--a man well born, wellbred, full of brilliant possibility, who was slowly becoming an idle,cynical, self-centered egoist--a man who, lacking the lash of need orthe spur of ambition, was degenerating through the sheer uselessness andinanity of his life. And, oh, the pity of it! For Mr. Keen and I havetaken a--a curiously personal interest in you--in your case. I say, thepity of it!"
Astounded, dumb under her stinging words, he rode beside her through thebrilliant sunshine, wheeled mechanically as she turned her horse, androde north again.
"And now--_now_!" she said passionately, "you turn on the woman youloved! Oh, you are not worth it!"
"You are quite right," he said, turning very white under her scorn."Almost all you have said is true enough, I fancy. I amount to nothing;I am idle, cynical, selfish. The emptiness of such a life requires astimulant; even a fool abhors a vacuum. So I drink--not so very muchyet--but more than I realize. And it is close enough to a habit to worryme. . . . Yes, almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I knowit--now that you have told me. You see, he couldn't tell me, because Ishould not have believed him. But I believe you--all you say, except onething. And that is only a glimmer of decency left in me--not that I makeany merit of it. No, it is merely instinctive. For I have _not_ turnedon the woman I loved."
Her face was pale as her level eyes met him:
"You said she was nothing to you. . . . Look there! Do you see her? Doyou see?"
Her voice broke nervously as he swung around to stare at a rider bearingdown at a gallop--a woman on a big roan, tearing along through thespring sunshine, passing them with wind-flushed cheeks and dark,incurious eyes, while her powerful horse carried her on, away throughthe quivering light and shadow of the woodland vista.
"Is _that_ the person?"
"Y-es," she faltered. "Was I wrong?"
"Quite wrong, Miss Southerland."
"But--but you said you had seen her here this morning!"
"Yes, I have."
"Did you speak to her before you met me?"
"No--not before I met you."
"Then you have not spoken to her. Is she still here in the Park?"
"Yes, she is still here."
The girl turned on him excitedly: "Do you mean to say that you will notspeak to her?"
"I had rather not--"
"And your happiness depends on your speaking?"
"Yes."
"Then it is cowardly not to speak."
"Oh, yes, it is cowardly. . . . If you wish me to speak to her I will.Shall I?"
"Yes . . . Show her to me."
"And you think that such a man as I am has a right to speak of love toher?"
"I--we believe it will be your salvation. Mr. Kerns says you must marryher to be happy. Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a wordfrom the right woman to put you on your mettle. . . . And--and that ismy opinion."
"Then in charity say that word!" he breathed, bending toward her. "Can'tyou see? Can't you understand? Don't you know that from the moment Ilooked into your eyes I loved you?"
"How--how dare you!" she stammered, crimsoning.
"God knows," he said wistfully. "I am a coward. I don't know how Idared. Good-by. . . ."
He walked his horse a little way, then launched him into a gallop,tearing on and on, sun, wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision,hearing nothing, feeling nothing, save the leaden pounding of his pulseand the breathless, terrible tightening in his throat.
When he cleared his eyes and looked around he was quite alone, his horsewalking under the trees and breathing heavily.
At first he laughed, and the laugh was not pleasant. Then he said aloud:"It is worth having lived for, after all!"--and was silent. And again:"I could expect nothing;
she was perfectly right to side-step a fool.. . . And _such_ a fool!"
The distant gallop of a horse, dulled on the soft soil, but comingnearer, could not arouse him from the bitter depths he had sunk in; noteven when the sound ceased beside him, and horse snorted recognition tohorse. It was only when a light touch rested on his arm that he lookedup heavily, caught his breath.
"Where is the other--woman?" she gasped.
"There never was any other."
"You said--"
"I said I loved my ideal. I did not know she existed--until I saw you."
"Then--then we were searching for--"
"A vision. But it was your face that haunted me. . . . And I am notworth it, as you say. And I know it, . . . for you have opened my eyes."
He drew bridle, forcing a laugh. "I cut a sorry figure in your life; bepatient; I am going out of it now." And he swung his horse. At the samemoment she did the same, making a demi-tour and meeting him halfway,confronting him.
"Do you--you mean to ride out of my life without a word?" she askedunsteadily.
"Good-by." He offered his hand, stirring his horse forward; she leanedlightly over and laid both hands in his. Then, her face surging incolor, she lifted her beautiful dark eyes to his as the horsesapproached, nearer, nearer, until, as they passed, flank brushing flank,her eyes fell, then closed as she swayed toward him, and clung, heryoung lips crushed to his.
There was nobody to witness it except the birds and squirrels--nobodybut a distant mounted policeman, who almost fainted away in his saddle.
Oh, it was awful, awful! Apparently she had been kissed speechless, forshe said nothing. The man fool did all the talking, incoherently enough,but evidently satisfactory to her, judging from the way she looked athim, and blushed and blushed, and touched her eyes with a bit of cambricat intervals.
All the policeman heard as they passed him was; "I'm going to give youthis horse, and Kerns is to give us our silver; and what do you think,my darling?"
"W-what?"
But they had already passed out of earshot; and in a few moments theshady, sun-flecked bridle path was deserted again save for the birds andsquirrels, and a single mounted policeman, rigid, wild eyed, twistinghis mustache and breathing hard.
The Tracer of Lost Persons Page 6